Our country, our country, oh, where may we find, Amid all the proud relics of leg-end or story,

A holier charm for the patriot mind Than that soul-stirring1 topic—our native land's glory. That land on whose standard the eagle's proud pinions Flutter lordly defiance to tyranny's minions, And whose soil all untarnished by sceptre or throne, Is a home for the brave, and the free heart alone.

And we care not to honor the bleak shores of Maine, With her ship-peopled strand in proud grandeur careering,

Nor the West, with her wide prairies waving in grain, The gainers of plenty by name so endearing. But the South is our home the land of bright flowers, Where the softest of suns, and the gentlest of showers Distill a sweet balm from the blossoming earth, And make life a bright vision of pleasure and mirth.

Though dreams of the past cling around the heart still, And a thousand proud memories will ever be cherished

Of Princeton and Monmouth and brave Bunker Hill The spots where our country's defenders have perished; The union they bled for is now rudely severed, The idols are broken we once fondly revered, And discord has scattered its pestilent bane From Florida's reefs to the snow peaks of Maine.